Leaving Colours
by Kinners
Summary: It is a dark day for the Republic. General Grievous has annihilated the Republic's base on Rishi, leaving no survivors-especially not his nemesis Kenobi. But all is not as it seems. Can the Jedi remember himself in time to save his Republic…or will he be cut down once more?
1. Chapter 1

HAPPY STAR WARS DAY! 3

I know I didn't update last week, and I apologize. Things get away from me once in a while. But I'll make it up to you...just not today, because I'm exhausted from Star Wars'ing it all day. May the 4th be with you! And don't forget Revenge of the 5th!

Enjoy~

* * *

The general slouched over the table, impatiently glaring about the cantina for the slightest excuse to make a scene. Any passerby who was unlucky enough to meet his sunken dragon eyes looked away unassumingly and sped up noticeably. As they should. With or without his authority, he could have this place completely empty in less than a minute. Well, empty aside from the dead bodies that would inevitably result from some upstart questioning his right to lord it over them. In fact, he had every imaginable right to lord it. Especially if might makes right.

Somehow while he had been investigating the milling crowds for his informant, the very man he'd been looking for had slid into the general's booth unnoticed. He suppressed his instinct to behead the stranger when he recognized the card the man had slid onto the tabletop. A rather amateur business card, if he must say, but it beheld the right name nonetheless: Fong Do, Bounty Hunter &amp; Space Rat.

"A pleasure to meet you in person, Do," grated the general, his voice mangled by his life-giving technology. "I trust you have the hologram?"

"I got it, all right," replied Fong, voice heavy with a Nautolan accent. A spotted head-tentacle draped over each shoulder, giving the misdirection that he was a Twi'lek. But the large, mottled red-black eyes gave it away when the alien leaned forward as to let his face into the light.

"But it needs some explaining," continued the bounty hunter, pointing with a mild accusational sense. The general was sorely tempted to crush that insolent finger with his bare fist. "so don't you think of pulling a fast one on me. I designed it in a way that won't incriminate whatever monkey-lizard gets caught with it-presumably me, soon to be you."

"Are you calling me a monkey-lizard, scum?" snarled the general. Fong shook his head fervently, not wanting to get on the wrong side of this imposing cyborg.

"Of course not, my mistake," he apologized hurriedly. The general heaved a sigh inwardly-why did respect have to be threatened into the hearts of bucks such as this? "But you get the idea. Once you have your intel and I have my credits, we leave at the same time, in broad daylight. No tricks. Capiche?"

"I understand perfectly," snapped Grievous, tiring of his paranoid banter. "Can we get on with it?"

Nodding curtly, the Nautolan placed another object onto the table, its circular shape identifying it as a holo-projector of sorts. Tapping it, Fong Do pulled up a map of a section of space that ranged from Coruscant to the Raxus System. His curiosity was instantly piqued-why were both capitals of the opposing sides of the war necessary for this demonstration? He almost immediately recognized the route highlighted in red, beginning in Republic territory and ending at Tythe. He'd repelled that attack from the Republic a year ago, but planet had since been neglected by the Separatists. With better things to do than waste time and money over an uprising on a worthless planet, the Separatists had let it slip out of their grasp. Grievous had not paid it any attention since.

"I'm sure you recognize this route," began Fong, having dropped his smooth facade and resorted to a strictly businesslike tone. "I was working on Paqwepor only days before they attacked Tythe. I managed to pick this up, but then I realized something..,"

Fong Do tapped the hologram again, and Grievous took note of the intricate pattern he tattooed on the device. The map appeared to invert, now revealing something that Grievous's tactical mind realized almost immediately. Something that was surely worth 5,000 credits.

"The ship they used to attack was a real dinghy, so they had to stop at six planets on their way to Tythe," explained the Space Rat. Grievous knew the first part of that sentence already, because he'd been able to shoot it down in record time. "but I know that your technology is beyond that. And the less times you stop, the less chances there are of getting tattletaled, right?"

Grievous nodded, barely tolerating this as it was. Every worthwhile general knew that. But there was something else that he needed to know.

With a few more keystrokes that Grievous internalized, the secret was revealed.

"They forgot to cover their tracks."

Fong undoubtedly went on to talk more, but Grievous hadn't noticed. He'd realized the importance of this deal the moment the hologram changed. Sluis Van was revealed to be only two or three sectors away from Rishi-which was a hop, skip, and a jump to Kamino. Sluis Van, home of some of the Separatists' best shipyards.

"The Republic had a mole on Sluis Van," explained Fong Do. "a mole who was a friend of mine. The Republic knew that Sluis Van was dangerously close to Kamino, so they sent my friend to incapacitate the shipyards. I know a business opportunity when I see one, so I, ah...convinced him to feed misinformation to the Rep. According to the Republic, Sluis Van is backed up until Coruscant turns green again. They'll never suspect an arrow from that sector. Even better, even if it is backed up, you can bypass everything with your rank. I also know that Rishi's fortifications have slackened, because the clone army has spread out so thin. I have the exact number of troops, tanks, and anti-artillery vehicles on Rishi as of yesterday. But of course...it'll cost you."

Grievous hated haggling. It was bad enough giving this scum five grand for something he could've beaten out of a hostage. Now he was asking for more? The general gave the bounty hunter his best death glare, his hand reaching into his cape for a lightsaber.

"Is five thousand credits not enough?" he demanded, inwardly relishing Fong Do's cringe. "I came here for information, not a tease! Where are the numbers?"

"Okay, okay," said Fong Do, shrinking. Grievous would have smiled if he had a face to smile with. "you win. You'll get the information, it's all on the holodisc. But the file's encrypted, so you'll need a decent hacker."

"Much obliged," purred Grievous, seizing the holodisc and attempting to appear less menacing now that he had what he wanted. "Your contribution to the Separatists will be quite useful."

Fong Do gestured with a hand wave, inviting Grievous to stand up first. When the cyborg didn't budge, the Nautolan decided to get up first anyway. Grievous rose as well, and they walked side by side to the exit, both stealing uneasy glances at each other. The distance to the door seemed to stretch out to miles, time slowing to a grim march. But then the general stepped out into broad daylight, squinting a little at the harsh sunlight of Dantooine in the summer. Fong Do split off to the left, turning his back to Grievous. It was the last thing he would ever do.

With the reflex of a predator, Grievous lunged for him. With the reflex of a hunted man, Fong Do whirled and shot blindly. If his aim had been as good as his reflexes, perhaps Fong would have continued to be alive. A green laser blade skewered him in the chest, slowly ending him as his dying eyes stared into the hateful yellow dragon eyes of his murderer.

"I'll take that 5,000 back, thank you," he snarled, letting the Nautolan's lifeless body drop to the dust. Brushing his shoulder where an ashen burn mark singed, he crouched down to give the body a pat down and find those credits. But as he looked into those marbled red eyes, he felt an uncharacteristic pang in what remained of his heart. In his gut he knew that Fong Do's death was necessary for the security of the mission, but perhaps he didn't really need to mooch a couple credits off of a stiff. Sighing unhappily, he got to his feet and began striding back to his cab. He was still mad at Fong Do for giving him a useless tease-the whole Tythe attack route nonsense was a red herring. But no matter. Now he had his information...and a deviously sound strategy beginning to form in his mind.

He keyed up Count Dooku. Time to activate that war grant.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Three Weeks Later**_

Kenobi sat bolt upright, an alarm blaring throughout the base's intercom. Shaking himself awake, he beheld with a groggy state of mind the clone troopers hustling back and forth, fully employing their trademark efficiency that made it nigh impossible to catch a Republic base completely off-guard. Unfortunate that Grievous had a knack for the nigh impossible on this dark day.

Just when he stood up from his mattress, the whole base rocked, a foreign energy field surging through the corridor. Electric shivers ran up and down his spine, the sheer force of the electromagnetic pulse bringing Kenobi to his knees. Breathing heavily, the Jedi used the frame of his bed to bring himself back to his feet.

"What the *$&amp; was that?" demanded a clone beside him, doing the same.

"I've seen that kind of weapon before," reminisced Kenobi ominously. "But how? Ion cannons are massive, how could he possibly have lugged it all the way here withou-"

The base trembled again, and continued to do so. Without tanks or cannons to take out their artillery, the Separatists would rip them to pieces. He had to get out there to do what he could, to stall until everyone could be evacuated safely.

"If we stay here, we're finished!" yelled Kenobi over the din of the pounding laser. "Call a retreat! Get as many troops out of here as you can before it's too late!"

Temporarily forgetting that all aircraft would be as inoperational as their heavy weapons, Kenobi seized his lightsaber and sprinted to the frontlines.

* * *

Sure, Grievous had his bad days, too. The first time he'd experimented with the ion cannon idea, the results had been catastrophic, with his mighty ship _Malevolence _taken apart by those blasted Jedi. It had been months after that before he could even ask for more money for the war effort. But that was a full year ago, plenty of time for Dooku to forgive that error. And Grievous also had his good days. Such as this.

The portable ion cannon worked so flawlessly that there almost wasn't a need for Grievous's expert tactics to come out on top with minimum casualties. Nonetheless, he wanted to preserve as many troops as possible for an even grander assault on Kamino. So he had the tanks and mobile artillery take the brunt of the attack, seeing as 'brunt' in this case qualified as whatever outmoded guns the clones had themselves, while marching the droids up the flanks of the base where the clones couldn't get an angle on them. As for himself, he split each arm in two and put a saber in each limb. He felt like he deserved to get in the thick of it today.

Popping open the hatch of the tank he had been traveling in, he took in his surroundings in a heartbeat. The line of tanks was much closer to the base than he had anticipated, but no matter. Vaulting himself over the lip of the hatch, he sprang off the tank and made a breakneck sprint for the doors of the base. Clones hollered desperately at each other to concentrate fire on him, and at their panicked cries blast doors dropped down with the all the finality of a funeral bell's toll. Swirling his sabers above him to deflect the bullets, he attacked the door, his four lightsabers making short work of cutting a way through. He kicked open the circle he'd cut, revealing clone troopers bustling inside like ants within the nest.

And then came the massacre.

* * *

By the time Kenobi arrived, the din of battle was deafening. Soldiers screamed as they were cut down, people called hoarsely for reinforcements, and above all was the constant hiss of whirring lightsabers. The sound of death.

Still half-awake, Obi-Wan skidded around a corner to behold his foe at his peak. Constantly springing from one kill to the next, Grievous left a trail of bodies on the floors and scorch marks on the walls. Even missiles from the Republic's latest rocket launchers were nimbly dodged and only served to raise the Republic death count by another five head. But at the sight of Obi-Wan Kenobi, his most hated Jedi nemesis, Grievous locked on to a new target. In the middle of gutting a clone trooper, he fixed his sunken dragon eyes on the Jedi, slowly bringing the rest of his body to bear on Obi-Wan. He twirled his lightsabers so that both his flanks were covered and no clone could get an angle on him without being directly in front of the walking killing machine. Obi-Wan's instinct to pass a flippant comment was evaporated by the chill that ran down his spine. There was a feeling of finality in that glare that made him feel as if he were already dead.

When Grievous pounced as silently and efficiently as a predator, Obi-Wan had just enough instinct left in the back of his head to react in time. Rather than backing up where Grievous could see him, Kenobi ducked and sprang forward, avoiding Grievous's sabers by a hair. Dodge-rolling to his feet, the Jedi turned on his heels and activated his own lightsaber, lashing out decisively. Grievous snarled not in pain but in fury, only giving his severed hand and lightsaber a passing glance as they clattered to the floor. Even though he only had three lightsabers to deal with now, Kenobi still had his work cut out for him keeping himself from being diced alive. Grievous was in his element-he hadn't had a battle like this in years, and all that pent up frustration from his daily life had to go somewhere. In the reaches of his sleepy consciousness, Kenobi felt that it was only a matter of time.

Before what?

"Hold the line!" cried Kenobi, blinking sweat out of his eyes. "If Grievous gets through to the command center, we're-"

He never finished his sentence. He left it hanging in midair because he realized something that he should have moments ago. Grievous had only been hacking at him with two of his hands, leaving his bottom left arm to hang back for an opportune time to strike-such as in the middle of his order. As he recoiled from parrying the other two sabers, Obi-Wan could only stop and watch for a frozen moment to end all moments. As if watching himself from somewhere beside him, he numbly felt the cold fire of the lightsaber slash him open from his hip to his shoulder, effortlessly singing through the thin linen of his pajamas. The blade gouged all the way through to his heart at the apex of its slice, burning its upper chambers to a crisp, and severing ribs at the most fatal of angles.

Then Grievous kicked the corpse into the wall with a force that snapped the spine, noting to himself to relish his victory after the base had been taken. But by then Obi-Wan didn't have the luxury of feeling such agony.

Because he was dead.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Forty-five Minutes Later**_

The General allowed himself a devious chuckle, supremely pleased with the sheer perfection of his assault. It was days like this that reassured his value to Count Dooku. How many Republic generals could have taken a base like that so totally? Not a thing had gone wrong, which was something that not even Grievous had expected, especially with the knowledge that Kenobi was present. With that blasted Jedi, the whole attack could have went sour faster than Grievous could blink. But he'd happened upon a magnificent stroke of luck today.

A stroke he'd turned into gloriously gory victory.

"No survivors, I take it?" assumed Grievous, turning his head slightly to address the droid approaching him from behind. Though the droid visibly stiffened in fear, Grievous no longer had the light of murder in his eyes-he'd long since gorged his inner lust for killing on the lives of the enemy.

"None at all, sir," reported the droid, falling into step beside and slightly behind his general. "All 1,325 clone troopers deceased and disposed of."

"And what of the Jedi?" asked Grievous, his mood hampered by a flicker of suspicion. Droids were very exact with their body counts, as was their nature via programming. If there were eight separate species of alien that died in a minor skirmish, you would hear about all eight specimens in more detail than anyone would care for. It was uncommon for a droid to forget a body, let alone a whole other genetic makeup other than that of a clone trooper, but he dismissed it as a minor glitch. He shouldn't have. He was only building himself up for disappointment.

"1,325 clone bodies were detected." repeated the droid. The same error was never committed twice in a row. His blood ran cold, yet he grasped at one final explanation that would make sense.

"Run another scan!" he snapped. "And don't be so sloppy this time!"

The droid scampered off in a terrified hurry. If Grievous hadn't been so sure of that kill, he would have decapitated the droid. But there was no possible way Kenobi could have pulled survival out of a cut like that. That was just as lethal as anything else he'd done. Kenobi wasn't _that_ good at surviving the impossible...

...was he?

Grievous stormed off in a rage, though fear bubbled under the surface. How had Kenobi escaped death this time? And what unfathomable power had helped him do it?

* * *

He saw sunlight through his eyelids, an inexplicable peace budding in his heart and softening its frantic beat to a more legato tempo. Dust scratched against his bare fingertips, its dry indifference reminding him of his own parched throat. In the reaches of his consciousness he sensed a memory just beyond reach, but when he chased it, it vanished into thin air. Along with that peaceful feeling.

He felt a surge of panic, taking a shaky breath and sitting bolt upright. His eyes wide open, he flinched at the brightness of the sun's reflection against the barren earth he found himself lying on. He was on a relatively steep slope, facing downwards, but he was rather high up from what he perceived. A tropical forest flourished far below, yet it hugged the mountain's foot close enough for him to pick out the detail of the leaves. He gulped at the thought of his fate should he lose his balance and fall.

He heard a shrill cry from above. Instinctively looking up to try and identify its source, he was nearly blinded by the sun's midday intensity. Using the sun to shield his eyes, he picked out two silhouettes gliding far above in circles. He heard another call from the figures, and they began to swoop down. Despite himself, he couldn't help smiling. By some trick of his mind, he couldn't seem to comprehend anything going wrong. Which was something that could have gotten him killed, if fate had been any less kind.

He rose to his feet, his eyes still on the ever-descending creatures. They were much bigger than he had thought they were, more the size of humanoids than mere birds. But they were so backlit that they still looked like normal birds to his meager eyes. Nonetheless, he couldn't take his eyes off them. Which was something that almost _did_ get him killed.

In his careless daydreaming, he had neglected to remember that he was not on a flat surface. His foot suddenly skidded down on a slick bit of stone, which pulled the rest of him down the mountainside. Tumbling roughly, he somehow found the ability to right himself so that he was sliding down on his back. Beholding the oncoming foliage with some alarm, he acted on instinct. He bunched his legs underneath him and leaped.

He covered a distance he hadn't thought possible, gracefully soaring. He relished the feel of air on his face, the wind underneath him seeming to carry him to safety. The sensation was breathtaking, almost as if he were flying. On a whim, he looked to his side and saw one of the bird creatures soaring next to him. It had a face akin to that of an owl, with a mask of mottled brown feathers and round, inquisitive eyes. Although he wanted to continue studying the creature, something else caught his attention-a white wing extended from his own side, feathers ruffled by the drag.

His heart racing, he found another wing and another bird creature on the other side. This creature had more of a reddish hue to it, with the same amber eyes as the first. But his own wings were a pristine, almost blinding white. Not daring to believe it, he looked down at the treetops and saw three winged shadows. Two of the bird creatures, and he made three.

He was flying.

He _was _flying.

The brown one made a clucking noise with its beak and swooped to the side. In a trancelike state, he followed numbly. He felt hyperaware of himself-the sun on his back, the wind against his skin, his moderate-length hair billowing behind him. He followed the two up into the sky, back up the mountainside. When they were high enough it was revealed to be more of a giant ridged cliff that jutted up and out over the rest of the earth, like a tectonic plate at a severely skewed angle. There was a flattened area between two sections of jagged peak, sort of like an open-air plateau. The two bird creatures alighted there, with a grace that he soon discovered that he did not possess himself. He attempted to imitate how they moved their wings, but he didn't quite know how to manipulate them yet. Long story short, he bit the dirt.

"Not as good a lander as you are a flier, are you,_ tchikik?_" observed the brown one with an exotic accent, offering him a talon to help him up. He gratefully took it, pulling himself to his feet. He stumbled a little, not quite used to the weight of wings on his back. He suddenly felt sore, especially in his shoulders. Whether it was his wing shoulders or his arm shoulders that were aching, he couldn't tell yet. He tried to stretch, but found it difficult with the new, ah..._addition._

"It's been long since we had one of you," said the red one cryptically. "I almost didn't believe it when me and Ziimak spotted you. It doesn't take one with the gift of flight to tell that you're new to your wings."

"Apparently," he mused. He turned around, trying to get a better view of himself, but because of the awkward angle, he couldn't see much save feathers. "In fact, I feel new to myself. Who might I be?"

"One cannot know," lamented the brown one. "But one can find out. I am Ziimak, and this is my sister Shytak. If history repeats itself, you have no name."

"_'History?'_" he echoed, cocking an eyebrow. Unfathomable instinct pulled his hand up to stroke at what he discovered to be a beard. He blinked at himself in surprise, feeling his face to scope out his facial hair.

"A_ beard._ That's interesting." he noted simply. Ziiymak clucked with laughter.

"Forgive me," he apologized. "It is not common to observe one rediscovering himself. Come, meet our tribe-you have none else to go to. It would be no trouble at all."


	4. Chapter 4

He found it almost impossible not to believe Ziiymak-rediscovering yourself was so maddening that if it were any more common he couldn't imagine society could function properly. If 'society' was in fact an actual word, rather than some imagined concept from his forgotten personality. He felt new to the world, yet his surety of foot and deftness of hand meant that he couldn't have been. Which obviously meant that he must have had a life before this.

But _what?_

"Nothing at all," he murmured to himself, alighting on the other side of a small crevasse. Since he wasn't as experienced with his wings as Shytak and Ziiymak, the group had opted to climb the rest of the way up the mountain and glide from there. But his mind was not on the climb. At the very least, a _name_ would have been nice. He couldn't imagine having to live with everyone calling him 'hey, you' for the rest of his life. Would he have to come up with a name for himself? That could be tedious work.

Hm. Hmmmm….._ben._

He furrowed his brows at himself. Ben? It sounded...familiar, somehow. No, the word itself wasn't familiar, but similar to something that did. Curious.

He stumbled a little on some loose pebbles, but righted himself with little exertion. The plateau had been a short ways down from the very top of the ridge, yet the climb was more treacherous than one would thing. But when they did reach the ridge's height, it was a sight to behold.

He was so lost in the scenery that he almost slipped for the third time that day. From their vantage point, a vast valley flourished like a splash of vibrant color among the stark tans and beiges of the rocky cliffsides that edged over it at all sides. The very floor of the valley was much further below than the jungle had been, cities reduced to the size of stones and pebbles at such a distance. But the mountains were what really took him away. The sheer size and angle of the curious slates of earth made it appear as if the earth itself were sheltering the valley and its inhabitants. They rivaled the clouds in their height, the ancient ways of erosion having fashioned a work of rugged art out of them. They were riddled with nooks and crannies, and deeper passageways were bound to hide beneath the surface of the rock itself. Despite the foreboding appearance of the mountains, scraggled vegetation stuck to the natural structures, taking root between shafts of stone. The determination of biology would not be denied by something as insignificant as a mountain.

The grandest example of this was a towering, gnarled tree, large enough to be seen from where they stood at the opposite end of the valley. Flitting shapes could be seen darting to and from it, disappearing within its branches or hiding between its roots. He assumed that those were more bird creatures, but what could he know? Only moments ago he hadn't been aware of his own existence, let alone other living beings. Perhaps_ all_ things flew.

"It is a long glide to Gwaal," informed Ziiymak, adjusting his position on the precipice of the cliff. "but a longer walk at that. Your-Kind like to get to places in great shiny rocks, that fly with great roars and stiff wings. We fly ourselves." Ziiymak chuckled to himself, as if the notion of flying with something other than your own wings was ridiculous.

"_'Your-Kind?'_" he echoed, cocking an eyebrow. He'd been doing that a lot lately-every other term used by Ziiymak or Shytak was mimicked by him.

"They call themselves 'Human,'" said Shytak, ruffling her maroon feathers against the bitter winds of this altitude. "It's a little hard to pronounce on the beak, but your fleshy lips might pronounce it better. They look just like you, with some variation in the colors of their skin and hair, but they are wingless."

"How did I get these?" he mused half to himself, again turning in place to try and get a better view of his blindingly white wings. "If no other humans have these, then why do I? What made me so special?" He'd used the term 'human' so casually that you never would have known that he'd never heard of the word moments ago.

In the back of his head, he'd known it all along.

Ziiymak barked out laughter. "You are special, _tchikik!_ That is the one thing you can know about yourself. Now, let's teach you how to glide."

With that, Ziiymak and his sister each got on either side of him. They set their talons on the joint where his primary feathers extended from, pulling them out so that his wing extended. Ziiymak even used his own wing to demonstrate even as he manipulated the giant white ones of the human newcomer.

"Try to extend them as far as you can," he explained, stretching his speckled brown wing out into the air. "Brush the sky with your feathertips. Then lock your wings in place. If you need to turn, shift your own body weight, but don't change your wing formation. Approaching it from here, there is an updraft before the cliff that will take you up to Gwaal without even having to flap." he assured, patting him roughly on the back.

He stumbled forward, almost up to the very edge. He felt a lump in his throat. "You're sure this will work, aren't you? It's a long way down."

"Of course it will," assured Ziiymak, walking right up to the edge and leaning into the wind to balance himself. Shytak smirked at him like a cat toying with her prey.

"Unless you're scared," she purred knowingly. They both took off, leaving him in the dust-literally. They kicked up a small cloud of dust that made him cough a little. Waving away their trail, he heard Shytak keen at him to join them. Willing himself not to look down, he sprang off the edge.

And flew.

* * *

_**Thirty Minutes Later**_

She stifled another shudder, despite the warm day and the tropical humidity. Since she'd left the Separatist cause, General Grievous had only gotten more ruthless in his tactics. Normally she wouldn't have cared, but when she'd heard that Kenobi was on the base at the time of Grievous's attack…

She growled in frustration, gripping one of her sabers at her belt as she stormed through the undergrowth. Why was everything such a mess now? Couldn't she draw an ace for once, rather than loss after crushing loss? She hadn't even had him in the first place, and now…

...now he was dead.

"Stop that," she told herself, upping her pace as if she could physically work herself out of this funk. There was no telling that anything would have come to be, so why get worked up over something that may not have even happened in the first place? She'd always hoped, true. But hope had never been her ally. It had always led her to further disappointment, during those rare moments when she _did_ decide to give it another chance to surprise her. She'd heard everything, endured everything, lost everything. Nothing could surprise her now.

Yeah, right.

There was a whoosh far above in the canopy, even blowing her cloak from so far high. Instinct told her to grab her sabers and look up for the source of the disturbance. A winged shape whisked past, kicking up dozens of miniature windstorms within the jungle. Something far ahead called out in a shrill equiline pitch, yet the sound had a concerned note to it that made it sound more like intelligent conversation. Forget intelligent conversation-the next thing she heard made her blood run cold.

"I'm all right!"

Not possible. Grievous would never leave him as a survivor when he'd bragged so surely about Kenobi's defeat as he'd occupied Rishi. She sprang for one of the higher branches, seizing it and hoisting herself up. She didn't dare poke her entire head above the leaves, but she adjusted herself into a position where she could see a patch of sky. She had to see for herself.

What she did see confused her for a long moment-and she didn't like being confused very much. A human figure with white wings was soaring to catch up to two Rishii, although how that human had gotten wings she hadn't the faintest clue. But that hair was a dead giveaway: a redhead, clear as day.

He lives.

She practically fell out of the tree, but she hit the ground running.


	5. Chapter 5

Much to his dismay, Ben soon discovered that not all individuals were as good-hearted as Ziiymak and Shytak.

He'd decided to call himself Ben, since it was the closest thing he had to a name. Who knows, maybe Ben _was_ his name, and a human that had known him would recognize him by the name and tell him who he was. However, much to his surprise and eventual chagrin, he wasn't feeling very urgent about figuring out who he was. 'Nonplussed' was the only word he could conjure that really fit his feelings. Of course, he couldn't be sure that nonplussed was a real word, but he was only speaking it in his head, so what matter? He simply felt content with this new world he was negotiating himself through, although he knew next to nothing about it. Maybe that was the trick-the _learning_. The thrill of discovery had him in its thrall. In already knowing what there was to know in his old life, he'd forgotten how exhilarating it was to learn. But he'd soon learn that it wasn't all flight and fancy.

With some helpful instruction from Shytak, he landed a little more gracefully this time, though he almost ate the dirt when he tripped over an innocuous tree root. Once again he had to relearn how to stand slightly stooped forward so that his ridiculously massive wings wouldn't make him fall backwards. He noted with a twinge of jealousy that no one else's wings were so heavy that they had to revert to the same posture; that or they were so used to it that they hid their discomfort with a subtlety that he envied. They watched him with eyes made huge by their feathery faces and contrasting colors, browns and whites and grays and even oranges. Speckles and stripes, feathertips and tail tufts, everywhere he looked. They chattered and sang to one another, youth chasing through the tree's canopy and elders reclining to watch them. There was a kindred spirit, some undeniable force that bound them all together. He felt a pulse of comfort at the foreign familiarity.

Yet he sighed, his eyes reflecting the bustling scene with blue shading. He knew in his heart of hearts that however fantastic this may be, it wasn't what he'd lost. It couldn't be. He didn't even know what _that_ had been. How could he ever hope to reclaim that which he could not remember?

" %$#!" snapped a brusque voice behind him. Feeling something large bump into him from behind, he whirled, instinct flexing his wings out in preparation for a quick aerial escape. That sure got him noticed-not only was white the rarest of colors for one of their kind, but those wings were simply huge. They would have to be, to lift him up, for he did not possess the light bones and sleek shape of a born flier. Suddenly there was silence where there had been laughter, the still, apprehensive kind that drives wild animals to chew themselves free of traps and cages. He found hundreds of pairs of bright eyes staring at him, daring him to make a move. Not even the rustle of feathers made itself known to his ears. They scrutinized him, their eyes burning on his skin where they looked. He slowly...deliberately...looked up at the one he'd bumped.

For a winged one, he was big; thicker-built than and almost as tall as Ben. And for the small, agile natives of this land, that was big. His legs were stocky and strong, with talons that looked like they could gut a goodly-sized animal. That beak was as thick around as Ben's arm, glittering like iron under fierce brown eyes. The hay-yellow feathers shone like gold, the powerful wings ominous of a stormworthy gale. Worst of all was the look on his face-pure disapproval, garnished with a temper so hot it was as if someone had pulled a live coal out of a bonfire to kindle the fire in those eyes.

"What...is...this?" hissed the brute, stepping towards Ben for emphasis. He felt that looking him in the eye would only invite further trouble, yet he couldn't drop that gaze. There was a calm, recently discovered firmness in his core that goaded him to assert himself. Whether that voice truly knew what it was doing remained debatable.

"Ben," he blurted before he could stop himself. He picked out the faces of Shytak and Ziiymak peering from over the brute's shoulders. "I'm Ben. And..." he paused to gulp, his throat dry with nerves. "...who might you be?"

"Was I asking you?" demanded the golden one furiously, getting into Ben's face. Though he was forced to lean back a little because of the closeness between them, he didn't move his feet an inch. He politely folded his hands behind his back, waving his wings to balance himself.

"You didn't seem to be asking anyone in particular," he explained, keeping his face as calm as his words. This was harder than one would imagine. "Didn't you want an answer?"

"Not from this!" clarified the brute, shoving Ben. This time Ben had to step back a little lest he stumble further, but he then stepped forward again in a manner of reasserting himself. "Humans with wings? Not possible! Not permitted! Explain yourself!"

"I thought you didn't want me to answer you," reminded Ben with a cock of an eyebrow. He knew he was on dangerous ground, but how else was he to earn himself respect from the multitudes? If he were to let this stranger lord it over him, whose rank was undefined, who could tell how they would receive him? Even if this were someone of importance and he was being brash to the point of idiocy, better to be safe than sorry.

"When I want you to be clever with me, I'll ask for it!" snapped the brute. "Who do you think you are, to not step down from my presence?"

That gave Ben pause. He honestly didn't know how to answer that.

"Excellent question," he responded, careful to keep the negativity from his voice despite his mounting ire. His feet were nervous, so he expended their energy by taking a few measured strides away from the center of the clearing he'd garnered. "I'm not quite sure. Yet. That's why I'm here, right, Ziiymak?"

The brute whirled on Ziiymak, and Ben instantly had to stifle a wince. He'd inadvertently thrown one of his very first friends under the wrath of...well, whoever-this-was. Nice going, Ben.

"It's true," backed up Shytak. "Chief Kyarr, please, you know what this is. Kal-Tek."

A wave of whispers and murmurs and murmuring whispers flooded through the gathered crowd. Kyarr froze, his eyes darting from the siblings to the crowd. He took an audible breath, turning to look at Ben. Ben remained motionless, his hand having come up absentmindedly to stroke that mysterious beard of his. His eyes, sky blue, an impossible eye color for all but an albino. They were uncanny to the great chief. Yet they spoke of something that he had not possessed in ages since: hope.

But the fear was stronger.

"It's a trick," he stated flatly.

That sure got a reaction.

Feathers fluttered and beaks cawed, voicing all kinds of viewpoints and opinions. Scathing words burned across the cool wisdom that was drowned out amongst the volume. The chaos startled Ben, to say the least. That feeling quickly took a dark turn. It was too much to take. Too many bodies, too much tension, too little space-

"Quiet! _QUIIEEEEEEEE-_et!" screeched Kyarr. His stature sure helped to calm crowds; at the sight of such a presence wading through the mob, even the most unruly delinquent clapped his beak shut. Kyarr once more turned his gaze to Ben, but there was more than rage this time. Ben narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the message in those rowan irises.

You may be, they seemed to say. But you may not.

"You know that I do not say things simply to say them," boomed Kyarr, his voice suddenly robust rather than shrill. "but to make my point known. Their-Kind are getting trickier and trickier, using unknown magics and cowardly mischiefs to wreak havoc on one another. Who will deny this?"

Silence in the treetop.

"You also know that I have no qualms in saying the things that others will not," he continued, voice slightly quieter. He took some steps toward Ben, although now that the human had seen more than anger in him, Ben was no longer intimidated. "because I know that those things should be known regardless, and that fear and despair shall have no power over us strong-hearted Rishii. And I say that it is, at the very least, possible for Their-Kind to turn their assorted trickeries on us, for their own inscrutable ends. Who will deny this?"

Silence in the treetop.

"I know many things," he proclaimed, turning to face the crowd. "but I do not know many more things. I do not know if this is truly Kal-Tek. I do not know if it is wise to trust this one. I do not know if he can be one of us. Who feels that they do know?"

Two words.

"_I_ feel."


	6. Chapter 6

The crowd parted for the most pitiful Rishii specimen that Ben had seen yet.

Saggy skin, sparsely coated with whatever feathers remained after years of ailment. Weak legs, wobbling despite the wing-arms' firm grip on its gnarled staff. Dull beak, chafed and scratched at the edges, surrounded by a splash of graying feathers where the beak attached to flesh. Clouded eyes, that darted around as if there was still so much to see. As if denying their decrepit state.

And, last but not least, an undeniable aura of authority.

This time, somehow, Ben had no qualms about subservience. He knelt, one knee up in case he needed to rise swiftly. He bowed his head and arched his back, tucking his wings back so that it wouldn't seem that they were showing off in front of this great nameless one. Instinct told him that this one was in charge, even further so than Kyarr, and for a fair reason that escaped him. Yet this one clucked warmheartedly, in the manner of a chuckle in human terms.

"Oh, do get up, young prospect," he said. His voice, cracked like old dry earth, was lethargic and almost soothing, yet Ben was hasty to obey. "After all, Kyarr is right about one thing. One cannot know about you yet."

"Agreed. I don't even know about myself," Ben lamented quietly, shifting on his feet awkwardly. He felt like he needed to run, to do something about this energy suddenly instilled in him. Heck, to fly even. The old one gave him a kind smile, as if somehow he understood. But how?

"Neither did the others," mused the elder half to himself. He looked Ben in the eyes, the amber-flecked brown just as youthful as anything else if you pretended that the pupils were still bright. Yet those eyes seemed to look beyond him, into something much greater than him. Or...something _within_ him?

Without another word, the elder whirled. Ben followed as if he had been audibly commanded.

* * *

"What is Kal-Tek?" demanded Ben, still following the elder. The elder had been completely silent ever since, despite only having spoken three sentences to Ben so far. Ben ducked under a branch only to discover that the elder had completely turned about and hastened back the way he'd come. Stifling his growl of frustration, he jogged to catch up. The elder was quite swift, for his age.

"You know, the thing that Kyarr said may or may not be the case with me?" Still no answer. He supposed that Kyarr hadn't said exactly that, or at least not out loud. Ben had only assumed that by looking him in the eyes. By now they had come to Gwaal, which the elder inspected only courteously before springing upon it. The elder began to climb the massive trunk with surprising agility at a moment's notice, finding wing- and toe-holds that were not so kind as to reveal themselves to Ben. The elder scurried ever up and up, spiraling around the trunk with his tufted tail trailing behind him. He stared up after him with furrowed brows.

"Is that why I have _these?_" he queried after the elder, shrugging his wings. Feeling eyes on him, he turned to find that the crowd had followed him. Thankfully, Kyarr had not, but then neither had Ziiymak and Shytak. Perhaps that was no coincidence. They looked, almost as one, from him to the escaping elder. They expected Ben to follow him.

Ben sighed and glared into his eyebrows. Trial by fire, it is.

"More like trial by hide-and-seek," he grumbled to himself.

He ran his hands over the rough bark, feeling for a hold. He found none that wouldn't give way under his clumsy weight. With his clunky limbs, he felt like a leaden stone among featherweight leaves. He glanced back at the crowd, not eager to make a fool of himself in front of what could very well become his tribe in no long wait. His wings fluttered nervously, drawing some startled clicks and murmurs from the audience. He paused, an epiphany worming his way into his mind. If he couldn't climb…

...perhaps he could _fly?_

Worth a shot. In any case, he'd rather try to make use of them than scuff them trying to shimmy up this tree. Or worse, break them on his eventual fall down.

He extended them and gave them a good once-over, finding that his wingspan wasn't quite as disproportionally huge as he had at first assumed. They felt strong, though, perhaps strong enough for him to take off from the ground. He flapped them experimentally, surprised at the full gust that fled from them. The throng of Rishii grew excited and started up their chatter, possibly teasing of his slow progress in flight. At a sidelong glance from him, a hush fell over them like a soft blanket. He looked up again-by now the elder was almost two-thirds of the way up the tree. And given the age and size of this particular tree, that was a long ways up. Either he'd been idle for longer than he'd thought, or that was one fast Rishii. Regardless, it wouldn't do him any good if he stayed clueless on the ground.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he crouched low, gathering his legs beneath him for a leap.

Tucking his wings in to minimize air resistance, he sprang up, the air rushing past him and stinging his face like a frigid waterfall. He began to slow, reaching the apex of his jump, spreading his wings instinctively as if to catch himself. As he began to fall, panic rose up his throat. Flailing his wings as if to save his life, he reached out for the tree and found that he was inches away. Too far. Just barely.

So he plummeted-and fell splat on his back on a thick limb.

Wincing at the unexpected pain, for a wild moment he wondered if he had fallen so fast and so miserably that he was on the ground already. But as he felt the reverberations of his impact through the tree and heard the rattling of leaves, he realized with a little bud of joy that he had made some progress. That, and he hadn't died making a fool of himself. He carefully rose to his feet, realizing that this limb wasn't all that thick and that he would have to watch his balance to stay on. Keeping his center of gravity low and adjusting his wings to make up for the imbalance, he leaned forward and stared at the ground below. Far below.

He smiled.

The crowd screeched and cheered him on, fluttering wings and cackling beaks. He looked back up the tree, ready to shoot for the next branch that would hold him, but to his dismay, the elder had vanished from view. Where could he have gone?

"What's all this, then?" squawked an old voice.

Ben looked down again, to find a pair of amber-sparkled brown eyes staring up at him as if Ben had no reason at all to be up so high.

"Whatever are you doing up there, prospect?" he inquired, cocking his head and leaning on his staff. He had donned a cloak of sorts, woven of what appeared to be furs and maybe even some more advanced fabric. It was hard to tell from this far away, but Ben could've sworn that he was concealing something underneath that cloak.

"I thought-" Ben stammered a little, gesturing from the tree to the elder before realizing that he was making no progress whatsoever. The Rishii below, one and all, were staring at him as if waiting for him to say something relevant. He sighed again, shaking his head slightly.

"Nevermind," he said submissively. He jumped off, his legs surprisingly up to the task of taking the brunt of his landing. Reducing the speed of his fall with his wings also helped. It appeared that he was learning more and more as time went on-thank goodness. He feared that if he didn't he would find life much more difficult.

"An explanation would be nice," he prompted, cocking an eyebrow expectantly. The Elder rebuffed him as casually as he had the first times.

"All in due time, prospect," he responded. Ben wished he would stop calling him prospect. "All will be revealed. But for now, I need you to drink this."

In a flash of movement that was conducted in the blink of an eye, he procured a dusty flask from under his cloak. The stopper looked flimsy, and the murky liquid inside long gone all sorts of bad. Ben had to focus to keep himself from visibly recoiling. He looked suspiciously from the liquid to the elder, wondering if this wasn't a trap.

"May I ask why?" he queried, mentally prepared to refuse.

"No," said the elder quickly. He gestured with the flask again, expression unchanging. "Drink."

The elder was so firm that Ben found that he wasn't nearly prepared enough. Ben didn't move, weighing his options. First he decided to stall. Maybe, with his ailing mind, he might forget who he was and why he had to drink this nasty-looking concoction…

"_Now!_" repeated the elder, with a volume that startled Ben into obeying.

"Okay, okay!" he replied, seizing the bottle before the elder could scare him further. Yet he held it front of him with a mite of hesitation, again staring from the potion to the elder. He half hoped that this was only a test of obedience, that eventually the elder would call the whole thing off and laugh at him for taking it all so seriously. But the longer he waited, the less likely that seemed. Those eyes were quite intense, intense enough to make him believe that there would be serious consequences if he chose to disobey. Nevermind the Rishii's apparent age and disability. Ben needed to drink this. They both knew it. But he didn't _want_ to.

Oh, well.

Popping the stopper off with his thumb before he could lose his nerve, he threw his head back and swallowed a good-sized chug.

He doubled over, made an ugly retching sound to try and cleanse the abominable taste from his palate, and promptly passed out.


End file.
